


tired with nothing, tired with everything

by casuallyhuman



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 6x13 speculation, But i don't really hate Echo that much, F/M, I do not endorse Becho, but not really because we all know they're going to bait us until the bitter end, so this is what happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 08:54:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20132746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casuallyhuman/pseuds/casuallyhuman
Summary: The bartender’s already making his way over with the bottle as Bellamy slides his glass down, pushes it toward him. He pours a little more than strictly counts as a drink, eyes all sympathy when he slides it back. Bellamy nods his head in thanks, picking the glass up again and bringing it back to his lips.He sleeps a little better drunk, anyway.He doesn’t get the chance to take a sip, though, before a slim hand stills his.He sighs a little, inwardly, able to hazard a guess at its owner before he even gets the chance to glance up.He’s right. It’s Echo.





	tired with nothing, tired with everything

**Author's Note:**

> Work title from F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned.
> 
> I've never written Bellarke before, but I really wanted to. It doesn't begin to cover what I _want_ to happen, but if we're being real, it's the closest to the best that we could get. Anyway, hope you like it.

Bellamy’s tired.

Well, not _tired_. Tired doesn’t quite cover it, he doesn’t think. Tired implies that a good night’s sleep will fix it; that he can rest for a few hours and wake renewed, refreshed.

He isn’t tired. He’s _exhausted_.

His body hurts from running, from shouting. His head hurts, probably from stress; he’d almost died several times today. Clarke had almost died several times today. He’s been struggling to keep himself, his _people_ alive for a month now, struggling to deal with the stress of having his best friend come back from the dead (with a _kid_), with a move from Earth to a new planet entirely, with a society of sociopaths trying to take their bodies, with _his own people_ trying to kill each other in the middle of it all.

It really doesn’t help that he hasn’t been able to get a good night’s sleep in years; that he probably won’t get one tonight.

He brings his glass of whiskey to his lips, lets the rest of the smooth liquid burn down his throat.

(He likes the burn. It’s good to feel _something_ he doesn’t have to feel guilty about.)

The bartender’s already making his way over with the bottle as Bellamy slides his glass down, pushes it toward him. He pours a little more than strictly counts as a drink, eyes all sympathy when he slides it back. Bellamy nods his head in thanks, picking the glass up again and bringing it back to his lips.

He sleeps a _little_ better drunk, anyway.

He doesn’t get the chance to take a sip, though, before a slim hand stills his.

He sighs a little, inwardly, able to hazard a guess at its owner before he even gets the chance to glance up.

He’s right. It’s Echo.

“Hey,” She says when he sets his hand down.

He brings a hand to his forehead, pushes some stray curls out of his eyes. “Hey,” He replies, and his voice comes out rougher than he expected. Probably the alcohol.

Her brows knit together. “Don’t want to join the party?” She says, and her voice is light, teasing, but he can tell she’s worried. She’s never known how to deal with him when he’s like this; pent up from stress, needing a talk. She’s good at a lot of things: talking isn’t one of them.

Still, he plays along, glancing at their friends dancing to some sultry music with a bass so deep it vibrates the floor. He can see his sister, too, arms around Gabriel’s neck as she sways her hips against his, and _that’s_ a bit too much.

He returns his gaze to his glass. “I think I’d rather _not_ be wanted for murdering Gabriel. I did just get off the hook for killing Russel.”

That’s another can of worms they haven’t spoken about. Her killing Ryker, his killing Russell. He wonders if they’ll ever get to it.

He takes another swig of his whiskey. _Probably not. _

She smiles, but it’s tight. “You’re talking to Octavia again, then?”

She looks confused, and he suddenly remembers that he hasn’t actually told her about the anomaly, about their talk. “Sorry, I forgot. I’d told Clarke and Murphy; I guess I got it mixed up.”

It’s probably a story for when he’s _not_ tipsy.

“It’s kind of complicated,” He decides on for now. “I’ll have to tell you about it later.” 

“Considering she tried to have you killed, yeah. Complicated.”

She looks… she looks _angry_, and he suddenly gets the feeling there’s something she wants to say that she’s holding back. Normally, he’d try to coax it out of her, maybe after they’ve had sex. Sometimes she’s more pliable then. But he doesn’t really have the patience for that right now.

He sets his glass down. “What is it, Echo?”

She signals the bartender for another whiskey before sliding into the seat beside him. “Nothing. What do you mean?”

He does his best not to sigh in frustration. “What’s wrong? I know it’s _something_, so will you just _tell_ me? I can’t always guess.”

When she looks at him now her eyes are stormy. He’s definitely pissed her off now. “You used to talk to _me_, Bellamy. Whatever we are—that used to _matter_ to you, but every since we came to the ground it seems like I don’t know what you’re thinking.”

“Yeah, well,” He grumbles lowly, “maybe you’ve rubbed off on me.”

She huffs a little, and he thinks he’s pissed her off even more, but she just wraps her hands around her new drink and sits back in her seat. “You talk to _her_.” She says, and this time her voice is smaller, anger gone.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who she means. There aren’t many women he talks to. “Clarke?”

Echo isn’t normally one to avoid eye contact, but she does now, focusing intently on her drink. “You’re still in love with her.”

It isn’t a question, it’s a _statement_, and he can feel his heart stop beating when the words come out her mouth. “I’m not—” His mouth is dry, and he carefully swallows before attempting to speak again. “No,” He says. “I’m not.”

“I’m not blind,” She says, taking a swig of her drink. “You were in love with her before the Ring.”

He shouldn’t have told her that, _really_ shouldn’t have, but there’s only so many secrets you can hide from a person you live with for more than half a decade. “I mean, maybe, yeah—” He sets his glass down. “But then I thought she was _dead_ for six years. I had _you_.”

She doesn’t reply for a moment, downing the rest of her whiskey in one go. When she speaks again, she sounds sure. Resolute. “You _thought_ she was dead, and you had me. But now she’s alive. You don’t need me anymore, Bellamy.”

He shakes his head. “What are you saying?”

She finally looks at him. “We’re breaking up.”

He doesn’t really know what to say to that, and by the time he does she’s gone.

\--

His and Echo’s relationship was good, on the Ring.

It was weird, at first, because they hardly knew each other, and at the time he’d been so focused on his grief he barely talked. He hadn’t even noticed her for the first few months, not really. She’d been there, slowly and reluctantly being dragged into a relationship with the others, but they didn’t _talk_. He didn’t really want to talk, anyway.

But one day, two years in, he’d been in an old guards’ room, punching a bag heavier than he was, fueled by rage, and there she was.

She’d wound tape around her hands. “Want to try to hit something that moves?” She’d said, and from there they’d progressed quickly to sex.

That was all it was for the next two years: sex. He needed it, she needed it. Besides, it wasn’t like there was much else to _do_.

But then, one morning, he’d started to _talk_.

He _needed_ to talk, hadn’t had anyone who would listen to him in years, not really, not since Clarke, and if Echo was anything she was a good listener.

And she was no stranger to impossible choices.

So there they were, driven together by necessity, by an odd sort of kinship. She was funny, she could relate to him, and she missed the ground as much as he did. On the Ring, it was a solid grounds for a relationship, and he hadn’t really thought it’d change _that_ much on the ground.

But then they’d found Clarke.

It’s true: he’d been in love with Clarke before, on the ground.

They’d been through _everything_ together: suffered together, laughed together, cried together. They were best friends, really, by the time they pulled that lever together at Mount Weather, a _team_, and as the days passed, as they’d been through the worst, they’d only gotten closer. _Better_.

And he’d always thought that one day, when they had peace, real peace, maybe he’d do something about that niggling thought in his head that wanted him to kiss her.

That, eventually, let him know that he loved her.

And then Praimfaya came, and he’d never hated himself more.

But she was alive, really _alive_, and he’s never been so happy in his life, he thinks, as that moment when he’d seen that blonde hair turn to reveal her face.

He realized, later, when they were fighting to stay alive, fighting to keep humanity alive, that he still harbored _something_ for her.

But he was with Echo, had been with Echo for _years_, and leaving now was nothing short of a betrayal.

So he’d done nothing, and he and Clarke were together, as they’d always been, but only as leaders. Only as friends.

But his relationship with Echo had only gotten more and more strained, on the ground, as he was reminded what it was like to have someone understand you, always. To talk _to_ you—not _just_ listen, not _just_ empathize, but talk, _really_ talk.

He’d tried to talk to Echo about that, tried to get her to share, tell him _something_ about her past, but she didn’t want to. She didn’t _want_ to talk, but she was happy to listen.

It was always going to catch up to them eventually.

\--

After Echo leaves, Bellamy has several more glasses of whiskey.

He doesn’t keep track; he just knows that it’s enough that his shoulders don’t feel so stiff, that his neck loosens. That his head stops hurting.

A different figure slides in next to him on his seventh (eighth?) glass.

“Bourbon, please,” Clarke says to the questioning bartender. She bumps Bellamy’s shoulder with her own, nods to his drink. “How many is that?”

He snorts. “No idea. Not the last one, though.”

She raises a brow. “I’d better catch up, then.” She turns back to the bartender, who’s setting down her bourbon. “Could I have a couple shots?”

“Of what?” The guy asks, smiling, and Bellamy doesn’t miss his eyes darting down to Clarke’s low-cut tank top before he blushes and returns his eyes to her face.

She doesn’t comment on it, though, leaning in to whisper loudly enough that Bellamy can hear. “I really don’t give a damn.” 

Two minutes later, she’s in two shots of vodka and sipping her bourbon. The bartender (wisely) leaves them alone. It may have to do with Bellamy’s glare.

“Madi asleep?” He asks, feeling it’s a safe topic.

She nods. “Finally. She wanted to come _here_.”

Bellamy can’t help but laugh at her tone. “What? Don’t think she could handle her liquor?”

Clarke rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning. “She’s twelve. She can’t handle too many _cookies_.”

He shrugs. “I seem to recall you allowing several twelve year olds moonshine, once upon a time.”

“That wasn’t _me_,” She protests. “I believe that was Mr. _Whatever-the-hell-we-want_.”

He takes another sip of whiskey. “God, that was a lifetime ago.”

“A few, actually,” She teases.

They fall silent for a long moment, but it’s comfortable. The kind of comfortable quiet he’s only _ever_ gotten with Clarke.

She breaks it softly. “How are you holding up?”

“Fine,” He says reflexively. At her incredulous look, he huffs and tightens his grip on his glass. “I’ve been better.”

“Is it Russell?” She asks, because it’s Clarke, and Clarke _knows_. She always does.

He shrugs. “Russell. Those guards. It just seems like… like I’m always killing _someone_, you know?”

“Yeah, I do.” Clarke lets out a quiet sigh, and he doesn’t even have to be looking at her to know the expression on her face. The guilt burdening it. “Even if we’d done it differently, people would still have died.”

“They always do.” He says, and his voice cracks at the end. He’s sad, and he’s _drunk_, and he really just wants a fucking _break_.

Clarke rests a slender hand on his arm and squeezes gently, stroking her thumb over the fine hair. “It’s not on _you_, Bellamy. _I’m_ the one who came up with it in the first place.”

He dares to look at her again. “It’s not all on you, either.”

She scoffs lightly, retracts her hand. He misses its warmth immediately. “I don’t know about that.”

He’s just drunk enough to grab her hand between his, stop its retreat. “No, Clarke,” He says, and this time he makes her meet his eyes. “It’s _not_ on you. _We_ did this. You, me, Raven, Murphy, Octavia, Miller. We _all_ decided this. You don’t have to take the fall for everything, you know.”

Her eyes lower a bit, but she doesn’t protest, instead leaning her head on his shoulder, and there’s another one of those comfortable silences. This one is longer; they sit there for nearly half an hour before Bellamy catches himself drifting off and shifts a little in his seat. The alcohol makes him a little dizzy when he lifts his head, and he knows he’s had too much.

Clarke moves, leaning back. “Alright?”

He rubs at his forehead, as if to clear it. “Yeah. I’m just—I had a couple more than I should’ve,” He admits.

She stands, keeping a hand on his arm. “Time for bed?”

He grunts his assent and rises slowly, not even able to feel pathetic as she steadies him all the way to his room. He stumbles a couple of times, but Clarke just laughs warmly and teases him, tipsy herself, and he smiles sleepily at her when she shoves his door open with her shoulder and leads him to his bed.

“Good?” She asks as he pushes his shoes off.

He furrows his brow. No, he’s not, because there’s something he wanted to tell her, _something she needs to know—_then he remembers.

“Echo broke up with me,” He tells her.

Clarke’s smile freezes, then drops. “Oh,” She says, biting a lip. “I’m sorry.”

He peels off his socks next, struggling a little with the second one. “Don’t be. If she didn’t do it, I would’ve.”

“Okay,” Clarke says, like she doesn’t know what else to say.

He doesn’t blame her. _He_ doesn’t.

He lies down, and Clarke turns to go. He doesn’t want her to, though. He wants to _hold_ her again.

He’s missed her.

But it’s too soon to ask her to stay. Even drunk, he knows that.

So when she turns before she closes the door to tell him goodnight, he just nods. Hopes that it _won’t_ be too soon soon enough.

“Goodnight, Clarke.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts?


End file.
